


The Last Drop: The Lost Chapters

by Burnadette_dpdl, Rebness



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2018-09-22 01:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9575780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burnadette_dpdl/pseuds/Burnadette_dpdl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebness/pseuds/Rebness
Summary: First Lost Chapter: Lestat and Louis, and the beginnings of their relationship. Lestat takes the opportunity to serve Louis breakfast.





	1. French Toast

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a series of lost chapters for our Signature Blend collab ;)

The first thing Louis felt upon waking was Lestat’s hand resting with the palm just below his chest; the warmth of Lestat’s body just behind him, down to the little detail of scruffy  fuzzy cheek against the back of his neck. It was both comforting and a little jarring, and Louis struggled to decide whether to remain or wriggle out of it without waking Lestat.

In the midst of these cogitations, the hand drifted downward just slightly, and then a little further, the fingertips just grazing the scant hair at the waistband of his boxers. Louis tensed involuntarily.

“Hmm…” Lestat hummed against his neck, lazily placing a kiss there. “Did I wake you, chaton?” he shifted, drawing Louis back against himself, and Louis shivered.

“Stop.”

“Hmm? What’s wrong?” Lestat’s hand halted in it explorations, the fingers just drifting on that tender dip of skin, still warm from sleep.

“I’m not…I'm just... not quite there yet, with this...” said Louis, the heat of a blush rushing into his face and neck. He rubbed his forehead and Lestat’s hand mercifully withdrew.

Lestat gave a little laugh as he pulled away. “We've already been _there_ , cher... several times…” He punctuated his words with a little squeeze to the more neutral territory of Louis’s side.

“You know what I mean. You know you're my first... ah... first…”

“Boyfriend?” Lestat finished helpfully for him.

Louis blushed furiously. “Yes. That.” He bit his lip.

Lestat rose up on his elbow and moved back slightly so that Louis could roll onto his back. “Well, I think of myself more as a _man_ , but ‘manfriend’ sounds like, some kind of a butler? Like a ‘manservant’? But anyway,” he said, assuming a more academic tone of voice as he continued: “I did go through a rigorous application process for this position, and I’m prepared to continue applying, submit paperwork, go through more interviews…” He looked at Louis curiously to see what effect he was having, and Louis smiled a little in spite of himself.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Louis said, tossing a pillow at his face. Lestat took the hit with a grin, and then slowly sobered under his gaze.

“Louis, it’s fine. You set the pace. Really," he said, and there it was again in his eyes, that sweet earnest expression. It was piercing, right to the heart. He looked at Louis thoughtfully for a moment, and licked his lips, but didn’t force anything.

Lestat swiveled around and leapt out of bed, pulling on last night’s t-shirt. It was white, with some vague design in pink advertising a concert. He took Louis’s robe off the back of a chair and came around to Louis’s side of the bed, extending it to him. The gesture looked like something out of a painting, the fine muscled arm glittering with blond hair. In the slanted morning sunlight, the white shirt and the short gray boxers, his hair a wild blond mane, he looked like an angel.

Louis got up and took the robe. “Give me a couple of minutes, Lestat. I’ll go freshen up.”

“Meet you in the kitchen.”

*** 

Louis padded into the kitchenette a short while later, the robe knotted haphazardly about his waist. There was a slightly acrid smell in the air -- coffee prepared at a temperature a little too high. He was about to remark on it when Lestat presented him with a cup of the very same coffee. “I worked out the machine,” he said proudly. “Armand said it had to be _respected_ like you’re flying a goddamn _plane_ or something, but I thought how hard could it be? Et voila! Coffee for you!”

“Uh, thanks…”

“Well, drink up!” said Lestat, gesturing for Louis to take a seat at the counter before clapping his hands together and returning to the center of the kitchenette.

Louis took a sip of the coffee, managing to keep a straight face as his tongue marked the impurities in the blend and the coarseness of the grounds. “So what is it you’re actually doing?” he asked, putting the cup down quickly.

Lestat ran a hand through his hair. “What I am _doing_ is trying to find a mixing bowl.”

“Do you want me to help?” said Louis, pushing away from the counter.

“No, you just sit your pretty backside down--”

“Lestat.”

“And let _me_ serve _you_ for a change. Not that I don’t already in bed, you little despot,” he said with a sly wink.

“What did I ever see in you?”

“This,” said Lestat, turning around and giving him a wiggle. “Now be quiet. I’m going to burn your taste buds to the ground!”

“Is that a threat?”

“I don’t know,” said Lestat breezily, opening the drawer and pulling out a spatula. “I thought it was an American thing." He saluted with the spatula.

A lazy smile spread across Louis’s face; he bit his lip slightly, and though Lestat shuddered in earnest when he caught that movement, he composed himself for the task at hand: whether it was acting or lovemaking or cooking, Lestat de Lioncourt _always_ had to be the best.

***

He searched about in some cupboards and found the mixing bowl. He set out his workstation with meticulous planning: the bowl, the spatula, a frying pan. Then came the ingredients: cream, nutmeg, cinnamon, eggs.

Louis gazed at the layout curiously. “French toast?”

“That’s right! _Pain perdue_ \- American style!”

“Ah.”

“Now, I’m afraid we don’t have a good boulangerie around here--”

“Yes, we do. Yvette’s.”

“--that isn’t staffed by somebody I don’t want you thinking about when I’m making you breakfast…”

“I thought we talked about this.”

Lestat gave an ineffably Gallic shrug. “But the secret to good French toast over here is potato bread and almond extract. Your bread will do. Just know that it’s not going to be _exactly_ as good as it might’ve been. Especially with no freaking almond. What kind of foodie doesn’t have almond extract?”

“I don’t know,” said Louis, shrugging. “I’m not really focused on food so much as a good coffee.”

Lestat grinned. “What did you think of the coffee I made this morning, anyway? Was it good?”

“Yes,” he said quickly.

“Maybe I can help you out at the café more, and I don’t just mean singing. I want to get behind the counter, show Dan how to really make a good coffee!”

Louis raised his hand to his mouth and nibbled on a nail. “So, French toast. Are you going to talk me through it?”

“Damned straight! Now, it’s deceptively simple, mon coeur, but you have to get the right _balance_ , you know? So into the bowl go the eggs--” he cracked a couple against the counter, and with a quick flick of the wrist, emptied the shells into the bowl, then tossed the shells into the trash. “Then the cream -- now cream is heavier than milk, so it’s important to get the right amount which won’t overwhelm the eggs and make the batter sickly.”

“I have a measuring cup in the cupboard above your head.”

Lestat rolled his eyes. “Please, artistes do not live in measures and half measures.”

He quickly added the spices to the mix, with a soliloquy about the Venetian spice trade, whipped it up and then soaked the bread in it briefly before frying it up. His voice boomed out confidently as he narrated his cooking, as if hosting his own TV show on Lestat cuisine. And it was a good act; it was only after a couple of minutes of watching him that Louis noticed how he swallowed, and his hands shook slightly.

Louis had spent his childhood being jostled around theatres in France, and then to recitals and balls in New Orleans. He knew the rules: be quiet; be respectful; be supportive of the performers even when they were nervous or made mistakes. Above all, be appreciative.

“You know,” he said softly. “I think it’s going to be okay.”

***

The slices lay on the plate, all of them the ideal golden brown, and arranged in two rows of diagonal slices. It reminded Louis of a deck of cards, mid-shuffle.

Lestat dug around in the fridge and had almost given up hope when he spotted the glass jug on the door, wedged behind some taller items. He withdrew it triumphantly. ‘Praise the Lord, you have syrup! I thought we’d have to eat it with butter!’ he crowed, uncapping the half-full bottle of the amber liquid.

“I didn’t know we still had that. Daniel brought that back from his trip to Vermont. It must be three years ago now --it can’t still be good--” muttered Louis, reaching for his plate to protect it from any expired dressings.

“Nonsense, the sell-by date on most condiments is just there to make you toss out perfectly good syrup and have to buy more. Trust me, it’s fine,” said Lestat, drizzling the syrup in jagged lines over the slices, then he poured some into a small bowl.

Louis frowned. “I’m not so sure.” It did look perfect, superficially.

“Try it,” said Lestat, shoving the plate towards him.

“The syrup looks a bit... I don’t know… the texture looks _off_.”

“Huh, there’s nothing wrong with the texture. Don’t be a fool,” huffed Lestat. He squeezed a little of the syrup onto a fingertip and showed it to Louis. “See?” He licked it off quickly. “It’s fine. Try some like this…”

Louis held out a finger and let him squeeze a tiny drop onto it. He raised it to his mouth slowly, then placed his finger in his mouth and sucked at it dreamily.

It was the guttural moan from Lestat which made Louis lock eyes with him. “Tease,” he growled. “Come on, eat up.”

Louis raised the cut piece of toast daintily and dipped it into the bowl of syrup, then twirled the fork as he raised it up to stop it from dripping. “This is good,” he said through a mouthful. “Lestat, this is _really_ good--”

“Well, don’t sound so surprised,” he said, a little peevishly.

Louis smiled at him and took another couple of bites. He started on the next piece, but when he raised it to his lips, the syrup didn’t quite make it. A long drip fell in between the parted lapels of his robe, right onto his chest.

“Don’t wipe at it, you’ll just spread it around… here…” Lestat licked his thumb and reached forward, “May I?” His eyes sparkled with anticipation and Louis gave him a little nod, the toast still pressed to his lips.

As Lestat reached forward, opening the robe for access, Louis gave the slightest sigh. Lestat’s thumb caught the drip at Louis’ sternum, and he licked the sweetness off, and wiped at it again. Louis allowed a fresh trickle of syrup to slide past his lip and down his chin.

“You are a _messy_ eater, you know that?” Lestat chided him, licking his thumb again and, with his other hand, tilted Louis’ face towards him by the jawline.

He put his thumb and forefinger entirely into his own mouth, sucking on them gently, his eyes locked with Louis’s, and when he took his fingers out, Louis said, “No. Use your tongue.”

Lestat needed no more encouragement than that, taking the back of Louis’ chair and pulling it close. The sound of the chair moving scraped in the otherwise quiet space. He held Louis still, tilting his chin up, and started there, flicking his tongue out at the syrup that had pooled a little. He laved at it with the flat of his tongue as he made his way up, the syrup was in fact very stubborn and he had to work to really clear it away. The sweetness against the cool pale skin reminded Lestat of something, and he mumbled to that effect.

“Pardon?” Louis said breathily. He had a hand braced on the table, and the other moving into Lestat’s hair, brushing it back to keep it from touching his own syrupy skin.

 _“Glace à la vanille_. Goes perfectly with French toast…” Lestat said softly against Louis’ lips. He sucked the lower lip into his mouth, licking at that tender indentation below it, His eyes were at half lidded, and he was pleased with the obvious effect he was having as Louis melted. He licked at the seam of Louis’ lips, the traces of sweetness at the corner of his mouth and then kissed his lips.

“I didn’t give you permission to do that,” said Louis, his lips burning from where Lestat had licked and sucked them.

“Apologies. Do I have it now?” said Lestat huskily, sliding his hands further into Louis’ robe and around his waist, making the fabric flare open softly. He drew Louis up and into his lap.

“Yes, you have my permission,” said Louis.

“Can we go back to bed?”

He nodded. “I can’t think of a better place to be with my _manfriend.”_

Lestat stuck out his tongue. “Your manfriend, at your service.”

 


	2. An Old "Friend"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old "friend" visits the cafe. Daniel's neighbor's niece also visits to pester him about his responsibilities as a good neighbor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Lestat, Louis, Nicolas, Eleni, Daniel.

It was a bright and cheery late weekday morning; the morning rush had left and there were only a few people at the window tables reading over their cups. Yvette had made her delivery without much teasing from Lestat, but as she had been delivering cinnamon buns he couldn’t help himself from praising them as she set them out for display, “Nice buns, Yvette!” Daniel and Louis laughed, as cheap a joke as it was.

Lestat was merrily wiping down tables, freshening the water in the flower vases, and even whistling a little to himself. He had been so pleased to wear one of the cafe’s sleek black aprons; it was an honor when Louis had eventually relented and handed him the apron as if initiating him into some hallowed club. “The Brotherhood of the Bean,” Lestat had dubbed it and then literally tried to wipe the smile off his face with the back of his hand upon seeing Louis’s stony demeanor.

The Coffee Overlord in question had stepped out to mail a package and so Lestat (and Daniel, he admitted to himself grudgingly) were more or less in charge. For better or worse.

For Worse walked in, strutted right up to the counter and considered the menu as Lestat made his way behind the counter. He knew how to make several of the more popular drinks by now, but Daniel was in earshot, and could be summoned for something more complicated.

“Bonjour, what can I-- _Nicolas?”_ Lestat said, the shock quite clear on his face. He had dropped his rag and only realized it was missing when his hand clutched at empty air. He bent to pick it up.

“Lestat? Oh God! It’s actually you!” laughed the slender man, impeccably dressed in a sharp navy blazer and ripped jeans. His shirt was noticeably sheer, and he wore a number of necklaces. He put his hands on his hips, the bracelets jingling. His eyes raked up and down Lestat’s body. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Nice smock. You work in a coffee shop?”

Lestat rolled his shoulders. “Oh, _please_. I know I look good in the apron. Yes, I work here. Do you have a problem with that?”

Nicolas put his hands up innocently and dropped them back to his hips again. “Not at all, I just thought...” he looked at Lestat sideways, peering at him through his tousled dark hair. It was long and loose, just past his shoulders. “I just thought you’d be a famous star of stage and screen by now.”

Lestat scowled. “I don’t work here for the money, you know.” He narrowed his eyes and added, “I also perform here.”

“Do they make you earn your stage time in tips!” Nicolas tapped the tip jar and nearly choked on his own laughter, tossed his hair back and wiped at his eyes. “Oh you’re _killing me,_ de Lioncourt.” He swayed on his feet, amused, and Lestat waited, jaw set tightly, until the heaves of laughter subsided.

“I’ll have you know that I’m just helping out here. I perform on the weekends, some weeknights. I like the intimacy of a small venue. You might need the numbers in a concert hall’s worth of people to shore up your immense ego, but I don’t.”

“Oh, burn… I might file a lawsuit for that burn..." he retorted, a malicious grin plastered across his face.

“Why don’t you tell me what you want so I can take your money and get this over with,” Lestat said with a sigh.

“How many times have you said that to a _client?_ _”_ laughed Nicolas. “Alright, you can make me a chai tea latte, grande.”

“We don’t use that terminology here,” Lestat pointed to the display cups. “Pick one of those.”

“Big. How quaint _._ Yes, a biiiig ol’ chai tea latte. Shot of caramel. Even you should be able to manage just one pump.”

Lestat was glad for the excuse to turn around and start making it. Yes, this was something he knew how to do. How hard would it be to sneak a handful of sand into it? He gave it real consideration.

He was still considering how best to poison Nicolas when Louis returned, and made his way smoothly to the back room, planting a discreet kiss on Lestat's cheek as he moved past him.

“Is that -- is he your little boyfriend?” scoffed Nicolas, his jaw hanging open demonstratively.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes, the owner of this establishment and I are in a relationship.”

“He’s hot.” Nicolas said, twisting his rings. “Not in a _hot-_ hot way, but in a more… reserved kind of a way. Like he doesn’t care. You see a ton of those types down at the club, and you just _know_ they’re trust fund pretenders. Easily duped,” he sneered.  “I never took you for being a gold-digger, that you might be swept off your feet by some rich brat. Things must have changed for you.”

Lestat didn’t answer him; he just kept his teeth clenched shut as he put the lid on the finished drink and slid a jacket onto the cup.

“I didn’t ask for it to-go,” Nicolas said, sucking his lip ring into his mouth. “It tastes better in a ceramic, you know.”

“Well, you didn’t specify, and besides, what does a starving _artiste_ care about how special a cup he has?  Now, step aside, because there are customers behind you.” He gestured to the mother with an elaborate baby carriage which Nicolas almost bumped into as he stepped back.

“Come sit with me when you have a break, L’Espresscourt. We should catch up.” Nicolas said as he walked off.

Lestat sighed inwardly and greeted the lady.

***

Daniel was tidying up after some messy high school students on the patio outside when an elegant lady caught his eye. He quickened. It was _her._ He tried to pile as much of the detritus into a bin and escape into the cafe when she was upon him, a black fishnet-gloved hand on his arm.

“Daniel,” said the woman. “Don’t you hide from me. I have a lot of important messages to give you from my aunt.” If anyone had seen her, they might think she was a model escaped from her gothic fashion spread, all olive skin and unmistakeable Grecian profile, dressed in all black, structured and tight. Her silky raven hair was pulled into voluminous swoops and gathered at the back into a vintage hair cage which had a long enough metal pin through it that might double as a weapon if needed.

He groaned, putting the bin down, and placed his head in his hands. “I’m sorry about the doormat incident, Eleni.”

“Oh, she doesn’t think you are,” she said, with a shrug. “She says to me, ‘why is that _boy_ \-- that’s who you are: _that boy_ \-- so loud? She says to me, ‘I tell him politely about the garbage disposal and he still doesn’t do it right.” She pulled out a lipstick from her tiny beaded purse and refreshed the bright red on her pouted lips.

Daniel threw up his hands. “It was that one time! I got a call and I ran back inside the apartment to get it, and I forgot about the trash bag, and then she was _screaming_ at me and I can’t speak Greek, but I know they weren’t nice words--”

“They were not,” said Eleni emphatically.

He picked up his bin and made his way into the cafe, Eleni tailing him. “Look, I try to be a good neighbor, but your aunt has super hearing, okay? She’d probably throw a fit if all we were doing was, I don’t know, stacking feathers!”

“She deserves common courtesy and respect!” snapped Eleni, evidently unwilling to let it drop.

Before Daniel could retort again, a strange man had risen between them and placed his rather large and long-fingered hand on his chest, pressing him back. “The lady’s right,” said the man. “You owe that old woman an apology.”

Daniel frowned, shifted the weight of his bin. “Excuse me, who are you again?”

“Yeah,” said Eleni, her lips twisting into a small grin. “Who are _you?_ ” There was something illustrational about her mouth, how red it was.

The stranger reached out and took her hand. “The name’s Nicolas.” He delicately kissed her knuckles.

“Nicola?” She tested the pronunciation, very flattered.

“It’s a French thing, _ma petite_. You needn’t pronounce the S. You can call me Nicki.”

“Nicki, then.” He was still holding her hand in his, his thumb stroking absently at her fingers. “I’m Eleni. You do pronounce the I. Care to join me while I explain to Daniel here all the ways he’s wrong?”

“With pleasure,” he said with a foxy grin, as Daniel threw back his head in supplication.

***

Louis returned from the staffroom, tying an apron around his slender waist, noting Daniel’s relieved expression. “I know, I know,” he said. “Sorry for the delay. Take ten minutes extra for lunch.”

“Thanks, boss,” said Daniel. “I wish you’d been here earlier to stop Eleni harassing me again. Can’t we bar her?”

“She’ll only wait for you outside the apartment,” he replied, grabbing a cloth and wiping down the counter.

“She was joined by that asshole friend of Lestat’s. He just _ganged up_ on me with her,” complained Daniel, taking off his glasses and wiping them down furiously. “I never stood a chance with him. It was like arguing with _you._ ”

Louis looked up, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know,” said Daniel, putting his glasses back on and giving Louis a cheerful smile. “Twisted everything I said, very articulate, argumentative for the sake of it. It was like you but _evil_.” He considered. “Maybe just a bit more evil.”

Louis turned as Daniel pushed past him to the staffroom. He leaned against the counter, watching Lestat, seated at a table by the window with the mysterious stranger. They were too far for him to overhear what they were saying, but he could tell from Lestat’s body language that he was giving tense, short responses.

 _A friend of Lestat’s,_ Daniel had said. He looked vaguely familiar, that mess of careless hair flung about his face, the rigid profile. Louis went about setting some fresh to-go cups as the familiarity nagged at him. He touched his own hair, tied it back.

***

“Lestat,” said Nicolas.

“What?” he said, bristling again. He braced himself for the mocking response.

Nicolas’s face was somber. “I hope he’s keeping you happy.”

“He is,” he said quickly, heatedly.

“Well, good. I mean that. It doesn’t suit you, being unhappy.” He quirked a bitter smile. “I should know.”

“What do you want from me, Nicki?” said Lestat wearily.

“I- I don’t want anything, I was just surprised to find you so unexpectedly,” said Nicolas, then resumed his inner cool, tracing a pattern in the tabletop with one long finger. “I’m pleased to see you, really I am.”

“Then we’re finished, right? I do actually have a job to do and can’t waste all my time dealing with one ornery customer,” said Lestat, leaning back in his chair.

Nicolas was quiet, simply studying him. The sunlight in his light brown eyes and his relaxed expression softened the sharp lines of that face; it almost was the Nicolas Lestat had known so long ago. “Lestat,” he said, a little break in his voice, and reached out to enfold Lestat’s hands in his own on the table.

“What!” Lestat bit out, tolerating the touch, but just barely.

“I’m… I’d rather things didn’t end the way they did between us.” Nicolas said, tipping his head a little, in that way that used to melt Lestat. “It’s kismet that I found you here. The universe may be giving us a chance to set things right.”

“You’re out of your mind, Nicolas. Really and truly!” He snatched his hands back and shoved them in his pockets.

“I’m not asking to get back together, you fool!” said Nicolas scornfully. “No, not that. Just that we might come to a greater understanding now that, well, things have had a chance to cool.”

“Not long enough for me,” said Lestat. “Don’t forget, you’re the one who said he was through with me!” He leaned forward again. “All you want to do now is open an old wound and pour salt in it and prod at it for your own sick pleasure and I want none of that so why don’t you fuck right off?”

Nicolas flinched a little at the expletive. “Well, that’s too bad that you feel that way.” He shrugged. “But still, I have all these connections in the music industry that you might--”

“Don’t think I would ever kiss your ass for my career!”

“That’s the spirit!” said Nicolas, his brown eyes dancing with mirth. “That’s all I want from you -- _integrity_.”

Lestat placed his head in his hands. “Please not the _Communist Internationale_ talk again--!”

“Well, look,” said Nicolas, reaching into his coat and pulling out a card and a packet of cigarettes. “The offer’s there,” he said, flicking the card onto the table. “Give me a call if you want to try out for the club.”

“You can’t smoke in here,” said Lestat dully. He picked up the card and scrutinized it. “Your number hasn’t changed.”

“I’ve still got your number, pal,” he shot back, standing up. “Think about it.”

“I will,” said Lestat, looking up at him finally. “But you have to know I’m happy.” He glanced over at Louis, and then back at his former lover, breaking out into a grin. “I really am happy.”

Nicolas smiled. He pulled out a cigarette and placed it in his mouth, before dropping the pack back into his coat pocket. “And like I told you, I’m happy for you, champ. See ya ‘round.”  

Lestat watched him leave the cafe, then stood up with a sigh, collected some cups, and took them back to the counter.

Louis eyed him suspiciously. “Who was that?” he asked.

“Somebody I used to know,” said Lestat.

“A friend?”

Lestat gave Louis’s arm a reassuring pat. “We were never friends,” he said softly, then visibly shook himself before turning a bright smile upon Louis. “Anyway, what’s next, Bean Overlord-- hey! Don’t hit me!” he laughed as Louis put his notebook back in his pocket. “I’ll file a worker’s comp complaint if you hit me again here, on the job site,” he said, and nudged Louis with his hip.

“Oh, you can try,” said Louis. “But the Bean Conspiracy goes right up to the very top. You’ll never get past the Illumin-latte.”

“I knew it!” said Lestat. “This won’t rest -- I’m taking you down!”

“Is that a promise?”

“It’s certainly on my to-do list, yes,” Lestat smirked, pinched at Louis’ side, forcing a giggle out of him. He grew serious under Louis’s soft gaze. “Alors, what is it?”

Louis glanced at the clock on the wall, and then back at Lestat, his face brightened and softened by the smile that spread slowly across it. He put his arm around Lestat’s shoulder and brought him close for a quick kiss on his cheek, a rare public display of affection. And then, dissatisfied, he turned Lestat’s face more fully towards him and kissed him on the lips, lingering there.

“What was that for?” said Lestat, pleased.

“Glad that we have a date tonight, that’s all,” Louis sighed, and leaned into him a little more. “There’s no one else I’d rather spend the evening with. And I have you all to myself.”

Lestat assumed a stern tone. “Now, Louis, I’ve told you. There are three people in this relationship.”

“Ah, yes. How could I forget?” He ran a finger down Lestat’s regal nose and smiled. “I promised you there will be no jealousy between me and Mojo. I shall happily Netflix and Chill with the beast tonight. And Mojo, of course.”

Lestat’s arm snaked around his waist. “Does that make you Beauty, then?” His lips so near, a kiss teased but not made.

“If you insist,” Louis said, blushing.

Daniel’s loud stage cough broke their flirtation. “Um, excuse me? Can you guys, y’know, get a room?”

“Is this not a room?” said Lestat, spreading his hands. “Technically, Louis owns the place, so we’re all in _his_ room.”

“I’m quitting.”

“Sure you are. You resigned twice last week, and both times were because of me.”

Daniel smirked. “Yeah, well. Armand said you’d be trouble.” He pulled his apron on and tied it. “Who knows what next week will bring?”

“Who knows?” said Lestat, laughing with delight. “One thing is certain, it’d be unbearable without me.”


	3. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story of Mojo the dog; how he was lost, and how he was found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Lestat, Louis, Armand, Daniel, Mojo, Claudia, Yvette.
> 
> The adoption scene is partly an homage to _Lilo & Stitch_ ;}

“Okay, so you know the song by heart, but you have to sing the entire verse, or he won’t cooperate,” said Lestat. “And you have to sing it softly: _it’s time to go to bed, to rest your fluffy head, it’s time, my love. It’s time to go to bed._ And then he will make his way to the room but he won’t go in. That’s when you hand him the blanket -- just offer it to him -- and he’ll take it into the room and snuggle up with it. But you’ll also have to remember the treat -- this is very important, and he will whine until you do. Just one dental stick so he is happy until the morning, when you can brush his teeth properly.”

Armand flicked his eyes to Lestat. “It’s a dog,” he said flatly.

“And what a dog!” said Lestat, picking up an envelope he had placed on the hallway table. “I made some instructions as to Mojo’s care, and you’ll follow them to the letter if you know what’s good for you.” He slapped the envelope into Armand’s hand.

“I live with you! I’ve seen you take care of him,” said Armand. He opened up the instructions and scowled at what was written there. “ ‘Give him a confidence talk each morning’! Are you serious? Again, it’s a dog, not an unstable atomic bomb!”

“Mojo is more than a dog, he is a son to me!” huffed Lestat.

“I’ve taken care of him over a long weekend before and he survived just fine.” said Armand, crossing his arms petulantly.

“Regardless, I can’t always be so sure about leaving loved ones in your care. For all I know, you’ll chop his paws off. That’s why Daniel is on this, too. He seems less… wacky.” He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “Follow the instructions,” he said sternly, in a voice which brooked no argument.

“Or what?”

Daniel threw back his head and then turned to Louis. “We’ll go with your list. It’s much less weird.”

“Thanks,” said Louis. He gave a little shrug. “Someone has to manage them.”

Daniel nodded.

Louis and Lestat were going off on a long weekend vacation to Santa Cruz, and Lestat had been crestfallen that Louis had put his foot down about it being a humans-only vacation. Lestat had even knelt down at Mojo’s level and held his face still, cooing to him that it would only be for a few days, and that Mojo shouldn’t feel abandoned in the slightest, his heart was big enough for two, and anyway if it were only big enough for one, Louis would be out on the street before he could say ‘But I can learn to share!’ and so Mojo should never be jealous, for there was no competition. Mojo sat there regally, and acquiesced.

“Well, we really need to be getting along, Lestat, or we’ll get caught in traffic.” said Louis, taking his elbow. There was no moving him, however. He stood as still as a monument.

“Armand, I have your word? You’ll treat him like the child Dalai Llama?”

“We’ll treat him _better,”_ said Daniel. “You can go.”

“I’m holding you to that,” said Lestat, fixing his stern gaze on Daniel. “The two of you combined better have him in the exact same condition that I’m leaving him to you.”

“They will, they will. Let’s go!” said Louis, and Lestat finally hefted his own backpack and allowed himself to be led to the door.

He pushed it open again slightly and glared at them again. “Just one hair on his head, Armand!”

“Yeah, yeah. Get lost.”

***

“Oh, God!” cried Daniel, grabbing fistfuls of his hair and whirling about. “They’ll kill me. They’ll _actually kill me!”_

Armand raised an eyebrow at him. “Your histrionics aren’t helping.”

“And just standing there -- judging -- what’s that doing!” he cried.

Armand stroked his chin. “If I were a dog,” he mused. “If I were a stupid, smelly, spoiled dog, I probably wouldn’t want to wander too much, because I wouldn’t feel like I was missing out on anything.”

“Yeah, thanks for that, Columbo! The dog clearly is fucking missing something, isn’t he? Because he left, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Armand placidly. “He’s missing his oafish owner.”

That night had gone without a hitch, and the dog had slept alone in Lestat’s bed just fine, and Armand and Daniel had slept in Armand’s room. Daniel had had to stifle himself so many times at his own apartment, and out of habit, needed encouragement to make any sounds at all as Armand had his way with him. It was always better at Armand’s flat.

They awoke tangled together, and found the apartment to be missing one large German Shepherd.

Lestat’s bed was empty, the sheets all tossed aside, and the dog was nowhere to be found.

They nearly ransacked the place looking for him and ended up at the kitchen counter, sulking over bowls of the fancy cereal Lestat liked, trying to retrace their steps.

At some point during the night, it had gotten rather stuffy, and Daniel had groggily opened the window in Armand’s room. It seemed that that had been the only escape route, as it led to a fire escape that a dog could easily use to drop down to street level.

They dressed and hit the street and here they were, two hours late and with no dog. Daniel’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

 **[Text: Lestat]:** How’s my big boy this morning?

“Armand. We have a situation.” Daniel showed him the text message. “What should we say?”

“Tell him the dog’s dead.”  
“Armand!” he choked in shock.

He rolled his shoulders. “Fine! Text the oaf and tell him the useless thing is dreaming of him or something. It’ll give us some time to find it and then we can get back to less mundane things.”

“Right, right,” said Daniel. He gazed down at his cellphone and began typing.

 **[Text: Daniel]:** all ok :) he’s dreaming about u  
**[Text: Lestat]:** At this hour he’s asleep?

 _Shit!_ Daniel thought. After a pause, he texted back.

 **[Text: Daniel]:** Daydreaming  
**[Text: Lestat]:** Ah yes thats my boy  
**[Text: Lestat]:** Give him a kiss for me!  
**[Text: Daniel]:** Will do

He straightened up and nodded at Armand. “Right, let’s get going. We have to find him and get this situation fixed.”

“Bah, I suppose so,” scowled Armand. “He’s pretty attached to that dog.”

“People tend to be,” reasoned Daniel. “Why couldn’t he have left us with a fish? Or a hamster?”

“He’s not a fish or hamster kind of guy. Has to have a big slobbery thing to follow him around and give him love on tap." said Armand, kicking at a rock on the sidewalk. "That dog is probably at the pound, on deathrow, by now.” 

“Now that is really not helping! Gods, I’m getting an anxiety headache. Let’s get some coffee and work out our next moves,” said Daniel.

“I suppose we can call around the shelters,” said Armand. “They’ll be glad to get rid of him.”

“Come on, he’s not that bad.”

Armand cast him a wry look. “He really is. They were glad to be rid of him last time.” He shook his head, marveling. “That dog is 100% Lestat’s.” He gave an amused snort. “Both pretty vital, in their own way.”

“Carry on like this and I’ll think your disdain is just an act,” said Daniel fondly.

“Hmph. Lay on, Molloy.”

***

“You really think this is necessary?”

“Yes. Definitely.”

Claudia had decided, and there was no dissuading her: today was the day Lestat was going to get a dog.

Claudia had a sweet little white highland terrier who always looked happy to see her. Her family had even staged a birthday party for her little Madeleine, with doggy guests and a cake made edible for the dogs. It had been a painfully cute affair, Lestat had to admit. Madeleine had been prim and proper the entire time, an ersatz birthday girl with the costume Claudia had put on her.

Lestat held the door for her as they went into the dog pound; the place was garishly yellow, and tiled everywhere. Petcare posters lined the walls; he purposely ignored the pleading eyes of the dogs in the posters. Today was to be an act: pretend a dog was on the agenda, look past them, do not fall for the canine connivances.

Lestat de Lioncourt -- San Francisco lothario Lestat de Lioncourt - had no room in his life for a dog any more.

Of course, he had had dogs as a child, slipping into the role of primary caretaker with delight. His first dogs had been a brother and sister from Mme. Costeau’s litter. His mother had taken him to her friend’s house and let him pick two as companions, and it had almost been a worthy substitute for kisses and hugs from her, or a kind word from his father. The dogs did not pull away from him in coldness, or brand him with harsh words; their love had been simple, pure and unconditional. He had loved dogs from that moment on and thought of his old companions often - an indulgence not given to his family.

He ached for that love again, but if he had to choose between a party lifestyle and a slobbery tongue, well, he could forgo the dog a few more years. And so, he was firm in his conviction: make like this adoption today was going to happen. Play teatime dress up for Claudia.

He put his hands in his pockets and followed as Claudia made her way to the counter, hopped up on a stool, and got right down to business with the kennel attendant.

“Do you have anything that lives a long time? We’re looking for something... _sturdy.”_ She twirled a finger in her blond hair. “Like a lobster.”

Lestat smiled. “A little less aquatic, preferably.”

The lady at the counter gestured them towards the kennel area, and they went.

 _Slim pickings,_ Lestat thought. There were a few shivering dogs, very underweight. It pulled at the heartstrings to see them but neither Lestat nor Claudia particularly wanted to try to win over a frightened animal. There was an older mutt, sleeping; his name was posted as “Bulldozer,” which Claudia found somewhat amusing: “He doesn’t look like he _can_ bulldoze,” she said sagely.

They passed a few more kennels with variously unappealing dogs and Claudia had just about given up. Lestat was relieved. The scene was nearly over! They turned to leave and there was a scritching sound, a kind of whine, from near the back. Claudia looked up at Lestat with wide eyes, and tugged at this hand. He nodded and they made their way over.

Past a _restricted_ sign was a cramped metal kennel with one little ball of fury. He was black and tan, a metal muzzle strapped tightly to his face. The dog clawed at the cage door, crying for attention. The door was locked, but there was a sign that read: “Euthanasia.”

“‘Eee-youth-an-Asia’?” Claudia read aloud. “That’s a funny name for a dog.” She put her fingers through the bars and the puppy backed up, then approached her and sniffed at her curiously. Soon enough, the puppy nuzzled at her hand.

 _“Euthanasia,”_ Lestat pronounced correctly for her. “It’s not a name, it means that that dog is going to be put down.” He shuddered with empathetic horror, and then when Claudia didn’t seem to understand, he added, “Killed.”

Claudia stared back at him, aghast. “Why would they put down a puppy? Look at him! What did he do to anyone?” Her mouth was still open in shock, and the glint in her eyes was like the one Lestat saw when Armand was picking on her needlessly.

Before Lestat could answer, Claudia went on: “He’s _good._ I can tell.” The puppy lapped at her fingers, but she reluctantly withdrew her hand and pulled away from the kennel. She navigated the kennel maze, her hair a bouncing mass, and went back out to the front, Lestat following close behind her. Her feistiness was something he treasured in her, and hoped she’d never outgrow.

She mounted the little plastic stool at the counter and jabbed her finger at the kennel attendant. “What’s the deal with that little puppy with the euthanaze sign?”

 _“Euthanasia,”_ Lestat corrected her respectfully.

“We want the puppy with the _euthanasia_ sign.” said Claudia, to Lestat’s shock.

“That dog is not available for adoption.” The woman said, calmly folding her hands in front of her. “We have better dogs--”

“Why not? We’re the customers, we can buy whatever we want.” Claudia retorted, undeterred. She leaned forward on her fists. She had seen her mother order salads with the dressing on the side, no cheese, she swapped out French fries for fruit bowls, and all kinds of other fussy requests that were always honored.

“Unfortunately, this dog has a history of aggression and biting, honey, and that kind of dog gets very big. If you like how he looks, we have another German Shepherd.” The attendant said sympathetically. “He doesn’t get along with other dogs or people.”

“Then why do you people have him here at all? If he’s just going to die?” Claudia said, her voice softer.

“We…” the attendant faltered, her eyes flicked between Lestat and Claudia. Lestat had his hand on Claudia’s shoulder. “We thought we might be able to rehabilitate him, but he can’t be--”

“Did you try? How long did you try? He’s still a puppy, so it must not have been that long.”

“We’ve had behavior experts working with him,” said the attendant, looking past Claudia to Lestat. “He was rescued from a man upstate, but he can’t settle down. He’s too boisterous--”

“Tying his mouth up--” began Claudia.

“He _bites…”_

“My Madeleine bit when she was a puppy,” said Claudia. “Maybe he just wanted to know how you tasted.” She considered. “He doesn’t even have a blanket. I’d bite, too, if I was in a cold metal box with no blanket, even.”

“I’m sure we tried everything we could,” the lady said, visibly tired. “Look, do you want to get _bitten?”_ she pressed, then looked at Lestat pleadingly, as if he would stop the magnificent advocating that Claudia was barreling forth. That sealed it. He had to have that dog.

“We want him. How much?” said Lestat, pulling out his wallet. Claudia gripped the edge of the counter and leaned back triumphantly.

After a long moment, the attendant shoved the application form and a capless pen at them. “There’s a two dollar license fee,” she said curtly. Lestat quickly filled out the form, then pulled out two dollars and began to hand them over.

“I wanna buy him!” Claudia said. She tugged Lestat’s collar to whisper in his ear: “Can I borrow two dollars?” Lestat handed the money to her, but Claudia couldn’t quite reach across the counter to hand the money to the attendant herself, so she tapped the bills against his arm and he passed them over, smiling down at her.

The attendant stamped the form and pulled the top sheet off, took the pink carbon copy and went back to the kennel. She returned with a cardboard box with holes in the top. “He’s _your_ problem now.”

Lestat checked the box to make sure the puppy was the same as the one they’d seen before. The puppy stared back at him, no longer muzzled, his tongue lolling playfully. Lestat hefted the box into his arms and blew the attendant a kiss on his way out.

***

He strapped Claudia in and, after a meaningful look from her, placed the box with the puppy securely into her hands before closing the door carefully on his charges and taking up his seat at the wheel. He pulled on his driving gloves and glanced into the mirror at the two sets of eyes watching him, one a dancing blue, one a soft and knowing brown.

“Let’s roll, mes petits!” he announced merrily. He turned the music on and peeled away from the pavement.

“It’s too loud,” said Claudia.

“Since when do you care about that? Don’t you love me blasting The Doors?”

“Eyoothanasya has sensitive ears, duh!”

Lestat nodded. “You’re right,” he said, turning down the music. “We hafta think of him now. And his name isn’t Euthanasia, I told you.”

“Then what is it?” challenged Claudia.

“I dunno, I’ll have to think…” he said. He scowled as the traffic came to a halt. _“Alors,_ and now we have plenty of time to think about it!”

“Barney?”

“No.”

Claudia considered. “Roger?”

“What!”

“Like the rabbit!” she said, matter of factly.

“He’s not a rabbit.”

“Derek?”

Lestat turned around and eyeballed her. “Derek? What kinda lame name is that--”

“Eric? Aladdin? Simba?”

“Oh, mon dieu, now you’re onto Disney princes?” he muttered. He decided that selective deafness was the order of the day as Claudia reeled off various unacceptable names, and focused on the music instead. _“Are you a lucky little lady in the City of Light,”_ he sang softly. _“Drive through your suburbs into your blues, into your blue blue eyes--”_

He glanced in the mirror again, at Claudia’s earnest blue gaze, and the dog watching her in puzzlement. _“If they say I never loved you, you know they are a liar…”_ he sang.

Someone behind them honked. “All right, all right!” he snarled, moving the car a few inches forward nearer to the vehicle in front. A cacophony of car horns sounded, and he strained to see why everyone was so angry, where the delay was.

“Turn the music up a bit,” said Claudia.

“But the dog’s delicate ears--”

“It’s better than car horns, duh.”

“Duh,” he parroted, and turned the music up. He sang along to Jim Morrison happily: _“Let’s change the mood!”_

 _“From glad to sadness!”_ sang Claudia with him.

 _“Mister mojo risin’!”_ crooned Lestat.

 _“Mister mojo risin’!”_ shouted Claudia.

The dog howled along with them. They glanced at each other and then burst into laughter. “Mister Mojo Risin!” said Claudia. “He likes it!”

“I am _not_ calling my dog Mister,” said Lestat. “I didn’t even call my papa that.”

“Mojo!” she announced excitedly, petting the dog with both hands. “Mojo the dog!”

Lestat smiled. “Well, Mojo, what do you think?”

The dog looked at him and sneezed merrily, spraying Claudia with doggy drool.

“Eww, Lestat!” groused Claudia. “Boys are _disgusting.”_

“Not all of them,” he said serenely. “You’ll understand some day.”

“Pfft, no I won’t. I’d rather have a dog.”

Mojo barked, seemingly in agreement, and licked at Claudia’s face.

***

“So he bit you once,” said Daniel. “It doesn’t make him a bad dog.”

“It makes him rude, and presumptuous,” said Armand, not looking up. “Like his master.”

“Did you provoke him?”

“Lestat and I provoke each other constantly. It’s our form of rapport, perfected over the years.” Armand met Daniel’s gaze. “Hey. Stop worrying. We wouldn’t be roommates if we didn’t secretly like it.”

Daniel sighed as they went into the cafe. Jesse was there at the counter, and she made them their drinks before telling them: “You have a guest waiting for you out on the patio.”

Daniel and Armand exchanged a glance.

They hadn’t seen their guest on account of the fact that he was lying on his side, enjoying vigorous cuddles from Yvette; he had clearly enjoyed a sample of her morning delivery, judging by the sprinkling of powdered sugar on his snout. Daniel was so overjoyed to see Mojo that he fell to his knees and gratefully stroked the dog, shoving Yvette aside slightly.

“Mojo! You’ve been cheating on us with Yvette all this time!” Daniel cried out, stroking the dog’s ruff.

“Now you sound just like Lestat,” sighed Armand. He set his mouth in a firm line. “Welcome back, dog.” He picked up the biscotti Jesse had given him and flung it neatly into Mojo’s mouth, watching with satisfaction as the dog gave an audible clack of his teeth.

Daniel sank back in relief. “We’re good, then. I’m so grateful that dogs can’t talk.”

“Don’t say that in front of Lestat,” said Armand, reaching across the table for a discarded newspaper. He pulled it open and began reading. “He’ll only take it as a personal challenge.”


	4. My Dinner with Nicki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rainy afternoon at the café is a perfect setting for Louis and Nicolas to argue over philosophy and coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the legendary Cesare, one of our all-time fave fanfic writers, who discovered our little AU and has left us wonderful encouraging comments! Among which, that they wanted to see a good dialogue between Louis and Nicki, and we sprung into action to fill the request. We hope that this satisfies like a smooth fancy coffee.

By early September, Autumn had dipped her toe into Fog City, dragging her gauzy rain-shower skirts swaying behind her. She spun pirouettes for hours every few days; the rain emerging from the mist mid-morning and continuing into the afternoons, swirling and sweeping out to sea by nightfall. The locals grumbled about global warming as the rainy season had been scheduled to begin in _December_.

So it was on a Wednesday afternoon that these light raindrops added their percussive drumbeats against the windows, a pleasant accompaniment to the piano music playing from the speakers at _The Last Drop Café._ High contrast notes struck out a melodic rhythm, a spirited motion in the still space, and the rain filled in the gaps between songs like applause from an easily-pleased audience. In the warm glow of a stained leaded glass Tiffany lamp, a regular customer with wispy platinum gray hair tapped the heavy keys of an elderly laptop, taking a sip of inspiration from her Americano at intervals.

Louis had chosen to ‘man the fort’ solo this afternoon. He wiped down the counter and admired the reflective surface in the glossy wood finish, a little possessively. This was his place that he built. Well, not the architecture, but he had taken over this shell of a place - a former chain hair salon - and made it his own. Every stick of furniture and every piece of equipment had to be researched, chosen, paid for, and hauled in. And there were snags; the opening had been delayed, but it opened, and it had been doing well, by the books, for the past year. It was a source of pride.

More than that, he had cultivated a little family of sorts, with Jesse and Daniel, Yvette and her deliveries, and then Lestat, an ersatz family to replace the one he had missed intensely since his not entirely voluntary exile from New Orleans. Not even a week, not even six days ago, Lestat had wrapped up a gig to rolling applause, and then, giddy and fresh from the little stage, made a beeline for Louis, hoisted himself up, leant over the counter and kissed Louis right where he stands now. The memory was fresh for Louis, and he touched his lower lip, right where Lestat sometimes liked to leave a little teasing nibble. He dug at a stubborn crumb with a fingernail, and then shook himself from his reverie, before he finished up the order for one of his few customers.

The outdoor seating was slick with rainwater, empty. The only other customer at the sea of tables and comfortable chairs was the mysterious Nicolas de Lenfent, a famous musician in his own right, who had made it a practice to visit this café under the pretense of it being “off the beaten trail” and less likely to have swarms of fans descend upon him for their “God-given right to autographs and selfies!” “Off” the beaten trail? The claim was baffling to Louis as the café was only a few blocks from Van Ness Avenue, a very popular tourist destination and a main thoroughfare.

Whatever his actual reasons for appearing, and then choosing to _stay_ when Lestat was not here for him to stick pins in, and although he could be somewhat abrasive to everyone, except Jesse, perhaps, Nicolas was a copious drinker of coffee, and his tips were generous. Louis brought his order over in a ceramic mug, as the rain had only intensified; Nicolas was clearly not planning on leaving anytime soon. The music changed to the Fréhel song Louis loved, her voice a honeyed bird’s warble, a little tinny, like it was issuing from an old and well-played record. Louis sighed contentedly as he placed the cup onto the table for Nicolas.

“This really is quite a wretched taste,” said Nicolas contemplatively, staring at his mug. “And yet...I consider myself addicted. How strange.” He took another sip and then set the cup down. He brought his feet down from the chair opposite and swiveled around partially to eye Louis. “Do many people order this chicory coffee?” He motioned for Louis to join him at his table, and Louis obliged him.

He shrugged as he sat down. “Not too many are even aware of it, it’s something I brought from New Orleans. I suppose it’s a little -- exotic. But it sets us apart from the other cafes in the immediate area.”

Nicolas had an arm thrown over the back of his chair, leaned his weight sideways against it to make it tip precariously. “So it doesn’t bring you much of a profit.” He was chewing at a wooden toothpick, must have brought it in himself.

Louis gave a wry smile. “Not as much as your run-of-the-mill latte, no.”

“Ah.” Nicolas let his chair fall back down hard and he threw one black leather clad leg over the other, the fabric making a little screech. His heavy black boot had a steel toe, glinting in the light as he rocked it.

“Is this disappointing to you?” said Louis, leaning back.

“Well, it’s a little… performative, n’est-ce pas?” Nicolas fingered the handle of his mug, his face a mockery of innocence.

“Excuse me?” he said sharply.

“I mean,” Nicolas began, leaning forward on his elbow, putting weight on the little table. He tapped the mug with chipped black-lacquered nails, right on the gold decal of the café's logo. “Is this your personality piece? Why would you keep selling something that doesn’t turn a profit?”

Louis had to hold back from rolling his eyes. _How can one explain that not everything leads to direct profits to someone who measures their personal worth by the price of their designer clothes?_ “It’s a flavour I love. I grew up with it. It’s --” he cast his hand about. “It’s authentic. I don’t give a damn about whether people like it.”

Nicolas looked at him with savage curiosity, a cat batting a toy around. “But surely you do, because you’re mad at me now.”

“Not at all,” he countered.

“Sure. Well, I’m sorry I upset you by remarking on what is, apparently, your theme.” Nicolas looked off into the distance, judging it.

“My _theme_?”

He waved a hand lazily. “This whole… chintzy Gallic thing you have going on.” He smirked.

“Oh, so now I am performing being French, am I?” said Louis, folding his arms.

Nicolas let out a short, smug hum that turned into: “A little.”

“I _am_ French.”

Nicolas sat up straight and tilted his head, tousled brown hair parting to show a heavily pierced ear. “But this is San Francisco, and yet your door has that cute _Entrez_ sign.” He leaned back in his chair, and grinned, tonguing his toothpick to the side. “Tell me that’s not affected. You’ve had the _Amélie_ soundtrack playing incessantly all morning.” Before Louis could interject, Nicolas shifted position and went on: “You know they interviewed Jeunet, and he said Paris is a shithole? But still he sold this ideal of some French – utopia – and you -- knowing Americans hoover that shit up like candy -- you profit from that.”

“I—”

“How is this café any less themed than Starbucks?” said Nicolas, spreading his hands. “Last time I checked, this was not the Boulevard des Capucines.”

Louis glowered at him; he ignored it and went on:

“And yeah, the little French welcome sign. Very quaint. You should sell magnets for five dollars apiece, maybe with _au revoir_ on them.”

Mercifully, Nicolas had to take a break for air so Louis took his chance. “How interesting that you speak to me of authenticity, when you are the… _entertainer_ selling out venues, performing like a trained monkey for cash.”

“You think that upsets me? Of course there’s an element of whoring out myself for money – all capitalism means that,” he said breezily. “But I never compromise myself,” he lightly tapped his chest with a closed fist. “I do it for me, not them.” He took a swig of his drink.

“So you play the capitalism game, as we all do. But how do you manage to stay so true to yourself and ‘on-brand’ as they say, when you claim that people like me are selling out?”

“Oh,” he said, flinching lightly as if struck by a pitiful attempt at a blow, and then, with an amused growl: “That’s not the same and you know it.”

Louis rested his head on his palm and smiled. “Please, enlighten me.”

“Well, for a start – I don’t – you know, whenever I play, the audience asks me to perform their favourite songs. It’s become a game to them, in fact: chant the name of a song, and I just won’t play it. _I_ choose what I sing, _I_ choose what suits the mood. I am on that stage, singing for myself.” He preened under Louis’s attention, who eyed him critically: Nicolas was very like Lestat in this regard.

“And you’re taking their money for it.”

“Yes, of course! Boatloads of their money. May as well live off my talents. Don’t you do the same?”

“Yes,” he said patiently. “Through my art. Is coffee not a _culinary_ art? Can you make the same order I just made for you?” He had half a mind to make Nicolas actually attempt it, and hopefully spill something on his white silk shirt.

“Hm. I’d go as far as to admit that some of it is art, some of it isn’t. Places where they treat people like machines, and just program them as to how this or that is done, that’s not art. When all you have is trained human machines, all disposable, there’s no personality, and themes are their window-dressing to lure in the customers, but you? I say you don’t need that shit, all the artifice.” He waved his hand at the French sign.

“Ah. Now we’re talking less of talent and more of subjective stylistic choices,” said Louis, with a little smile.

Nicolas eyed him for a moment. “But, one can judge art objectively, based on intent of the artist. You have this silly French façade to draw people in cheaply when you could be, ah-” he searched for the right words, spitting out: “Blazing new trails! And drawing in better customers! Why limit yourself to such -- and let’s be honest here -- cheap tactics?”

“So, can we at least agree that running a business like this is as much a series of artistic choices within the framework of one’s field?” said Louis, getting a tentative nod from Nicolas. “But your contention is that I am not doing my art _correctly._ And, as with my shop, you are the consummate critic and have a lot to say about Lestat's version of your field. You belittle and diminish Lestat’s performance with so many insults, which I think is unfair. You call him a hack, and a crowd pleaser.”

“He _is_ a crowd pleaser. It’s why I refused to work with him again. Do you know how he gurns for the audience, and how easily flattered he is? Chrissake, it’s off-putting.” Nicolas shuddered, digging his ringed fingers into his hair and pushing it up at the roots for volume.

Louis went on, cautiously. “I’ve watched him perform, probably as much as you have by now, and perhaps he’s changed his approach since you last saw him. I can tell you that he enjoys working with the audience rather than against them. That he sings things that he may be unable to say in words, in conversation. That takes a willingness to open oneself to the backlash that can follow, deserved or not. Putting oneself out there, at the mercy of the masses. You engage with the audience just as much as he does. You just said yourself that they like to rile you, and try to get you to play different things.”

Nicolas stilled for a moment, his gaze intense and thoughtful. He leaned back and seemed to fold in on himself somewhat, steepling his hands. “If life gave me some fans stupid enough to follow me even though I’m a swine, that’s their problem, not mine,” he muttered. “What do any of them matter? We scream into the void. They’re all just -- I don’t know -- the _masses._ They witness it, and nothing more.”

“You sound very bitter.”

“I’m not bitter; I just don’t compromise.” Nicolas let out a fractured sigh. “Look. If you truly cared about the coffee and your art in making the coffee, you wouldn’t pander to the clientele. The café a block down started selling that ubiquitous chai latte when fall came, and then you started selling it two weeks later. I noticed.”

Louis shifted uncomfortably. “It made sense, people wanted it. If it’s hardly more effort for me to serve them, and they prefer the way I make it here, is that not art _ful?""_

“Then you admit it, you run with what people want.” He wagged an accusing finger at him.

Louis gave out a choked laugh. “So I should refuse reasonable requests, let this café fail, that will rendre the whole experience authentic?”

Nicolas smiled wickedly. “You go all faux French when you are angry.”

“What?”

“You said rend _re_. In that… accent of yours.”

“Firstly,” he said with a scowl. “You too have an accent--”

“Oui,” said Nicolas placidly.

“And secondly, render is borrowed from the French, so maybe I am being wholly authentic.”

_“It’s the children who are wrong!”_

“What?” he asked irritably.

Nicolas shook his head, smiling fondly. “Just a cultural reference.”

“Look, where were we – what were we even…?” he sighed. “Sometimes coffee is just… coffee. And maybe integrity to people like me, like Lestat, is to make others happy. I don't see anything wrong with that.”

“You are entirely too generous to Lestat. He craves that validation; he doesn’t give a damn about making people happy. Lestat takes as much as he can from people, and then throws them aside.” He drained his mug and set it down definitively.

The dig did not land as he expected: Louis regarded him with an amused air now, and drummed the fingers of his left hand on the table. “You sound just like a friend of mine.”

“You have such long fingers,” Nicolas said, gathering himself for the next thrust. “Very elegant.” He looked up at Louis to see the sting land. “If you had an ounce of talent in you, you would be a musician.”

But Louis had that dreamy, remote expression on his face now, and he was lost again. “I’ll stick with making the coffee people enjoy in exchange for the financial freedom to do so.”

“Because it’s easy, I suppose.”

He gave a shy smile. “Lestat appreciates it, at least.” And he drifted back into that dreamy, remote place of his so quickly and easily that Nicolas could not catch him. “When you saw him here for the first time in an apron, you know, he wanted to learn, he had no need of the money.”

Nicolas waved that away. “Lestat appreciates those fingers more than you do, I wager.” He regarded Louis, a curious surge or temper overtaking him, and then gone as quickly as it had arrived. “There's a part in Sartre's _Le Mur_ \-- you know of it?”

“Of course I do!” said Louis, rousing himself, and blushed at the defensive heat in his own voice.

“-- A character says that -- hold on, let me get it up on my iphone, I'll say it wrong if I don't.”

He scrolled through the phone, muttering to himself in low French. “Ah, voilà,” he said. He read out the excerpt in the original French:

_...He loves me, he doesn't love my bowels, if they showed him my appendix in a glass he wouldn't recognize it, he's always feeling me, but if they put the glass in his hands he wouldn't touch it, he wouldn't think, "that's hers," you ought to love all of somebody, the esophagus, the liver, the intestines. Maybe we don't love them because we aren't used to them, but if we saw them the way we saw our hands and arms maybe we'd love them; the starfish must love each other better than we do.’_

Louis gave him a tolerant look. “I don’t suppose anyone should have to love bowels.”

“And your mind? _My_ mind? If we were -- you know, these people who can’t go into the supermarket unless they can ride around the aisles in a motorized cart -- but we still had our beautiful unhappy depressed minds -- would Lestat love us then?”  

Louis scowled. “What a question! You could say the same thing of us.” He lapsed into a sullen silence, but Nicolas’s light brown eyes were large and open, and he found himself rushing to fill the probing silence. “I don't know,” he muttered. “I -- yes, I _am_ afraid that if -- you know, if there was a car accident, and I were disfigured,” he twisted the slim silver bracelet on his wrist, a gift from Lestat. “He might, would probably leave. But I could worry about it and it may not happen, and all I know is that I love him. I can be more myself when I am with him than with anyone else. And love, that's all I can give him.” He slapped the table. “But go ahead, tell me now how foolish and pedestrian that is.”

“Why would I?” said Nicki, amused. “I respect what you’re saying. But I could never…” he rubbed at his wrist, pushing the jangling bracelets up and away from the ridges they had left in his skin.

“Never what?” he asked, and now he gave the knowing smile. “Never love? Ah, tell me that. Tell me you’ve experienced it all, and have concluded that you are above love.”

“Of course I love!” said Nicolas scornfully. “I love a good chilled bourbon. Or several.” He laughed weakly, tracing a pattern along the mosaic table top. “Sometimes I even believe I am in love with someone, but it is such a small existence to me, to devote myself to another person when there is so much more--”

“Ah, but you are in love with life itself, then.”

Nicolas could not keep the bitter twinge from his voice.  “ _Au contraire!_  I have -- three times I have tried, and I failed, each time.” He glanced down at his wrists, and then quickly up again. “But you want me to tell you I looked into the void, and I saw a reason to continue. I didn't.”

“You quote Sartre at his most cynical to me, so allow me to quote him in turn: ‘ _like dreamers, I mistook disenchantment for truth_.’ ”

Nicolas frowned. “So you consider enchantment to be truth. You contradict yourself.”

Louis cast him a playful look. “Very well, then,” he said, spreading his hands. “I contradict myself.”

“Please, not Walt Whitman!” he groaned in response. “I find him -- lacking.”

“I did, too,” said Louis. “Against the sneering realism of Sartre, you know?” He smiled to see Nicolas's emphatic nod. “But I find myself looking for gentleness more and more… I don't think I am built to thrive in -- in what you thrive in.” His smile grew apologetic, though his eyes remained hard.

Nicolas scrutinized his beautiful cold face, and submitted to it. “You think I have grown used to this?” he said softly. His eyes glimmered for a moment.

Louis looked down at the table, his brow furrowed. “No,” he said. “No, you couldn't without it consuming you. You know that.”

He grasped his left wrist again, and his gaze shifted to the window, where the rain tapped gentle against the pane, to the rain-slicked street, where people hurried along, ghostly and harassed and then gone. He did not speak for some time, and Nicolas did not push him. Presently, he roused himself. He went on:

“I wake up sometimes and -- it hits me. One day, I simply won't exist. The horror never leaves me, never. I’m scared of growing old, would you believe it? And not out of vanity, it’s really not that. I’m scared of so many things, and I try not to be. What would give it meaning?” His lip twisted. “We bring new life into the world, generation after generation, and we all toil away, and yes there are good times, but we get hurt, we grow old and feeble, and every day hurts, and I don't understand how you can condemn a soul to that - giving birth to someone knowing they will end in suffering. We all end in suffering, and for what?” He fixed Nicolas with a fierce green stare. “For what, Nicki?” he asked harshly.

He pulled back a little at Nicolas's laugh. It was not a friendly laugh.

“But that is my point exactly!” said Nicolas, reaching across the table to grab his hand and forestall his escape. “So what do you do? Do you smoke? Ha, I am the quintessential Frenchman with his gauloises, despairing with smoke.”

“No, I -- I drank. A lot,” he said grimly. He pulled his hand away from Nicolas and ran it down his other wrist. “Now it's coffee.”

“That can't be good for your nerves. Your hands shake, you know. And you fiddle with that bracelet so nervously.” He watched as Louis promptly sat up straight and hid his hands beneath the table. He smiled. “But not when you are with Lestat. I noticed that too.”

Louis shook his head a little. “He is very capricious, not always good for my nerves. But you know him well enough to know that his natural disposition is kindness, beneath all that unnecessary armour. He is my favorite thing to study.”

“Then he’s a distraction, yes?”

He paused. “…Yes,” he admitted.

Nicolas gave an ineffable Gallic shrug. “Then your escape is no less authentic than mine. We plunge into what we can, art or love,” he said, waving his hand airily. ”It's all the same.”

Louis bit his lip. “But there's an -- inauthenticity to it,” he said.

“Ah, there is to everything, these days. Postmodernism will be the death of us all. I cite Sartre, and yet in citing him I borrow another man's thoughts, and I, too, am inauthentic.”

Louis nodded. “It’s enough to drive one to drinking chicory coffee.”

Nicolas laughed softly.

They sat in companionable silence for some time, listening to the faint tap of the woman’s keyboard, and the incessant unhappy rain.

Nicolas shifted a little. “I much prefer this to Starbucks,” he said.


End file.
